Rag and Bone (17 page)

“OK,” I said. I had to agree with them, although I wouldn’t do it out loud. “I’ll try Chapman again. Tell me, does Eddie know that Sheila is working for you?”

“No, not according to her, anyway,” Flack said. “She’s been reporting to us for two months now, and she swears no one’s the wiser. Anything else you’ve failed to tell us?”

“Just one thing I heard at High Wycombe. That the Russian delegation stopped coming right after they had a meeting there with some Royal Navy officers.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Flack said.

“I have no idea. The Russians, the American Eighth Air Force, and the Royal Navy. The first two aren’t talking, so I thought you might try your guys. Maybe ask our friend from MI5, Major Charles Cosgrove.”

“Why don’t you?” Flack said.

“Because the last time I saw him, I almost punched his fat face in.”

“I think we will make the inquiry, Lieutenant Boyle,” Scutt said. “For the sake of Allied unity.”

CHAPTER
•
TWELVE

I
T WASN’T FAR
from the Met to Norfolk House, but I wished it was farther so I’d have more time to work on my pitch to Colonel Harding. I didn’t think he’d take kindly to my stealing U.S. Army supplies, no matter how good the cause, or the fact that I’d get paid for them, black market wholesale rate.

The sky was filled with low, dark clouds, just the thing to keep the Luftwaffe at bay. It would keep our bombers grounded as well, if the cloud cover extended over the Continent. How did our aircrew feel about that? Happy at another day of life on the ground, or wishing they could get in another mission toward the twenty-five they needed to be rotated home? All I knew for sure was that there must be a helluva lot of civilians all over Europe who prayed for lousy weather.

“How did it go last night?” Harding said, before I’d gotten my trench coat off.

“I survived the air raid.”

“I can see that, Boyle. I mean with Chapman. You were headed to Liverpool Street when you left here yesterday.”

“I can safely say he’s a homicidal maniac,” I said as I settled into an armchair across from Harding’s desk. “He’s set up at one end of the shelter like it was home sweet home, complete with bodyguards, a bedroom, and a pig sticker from the last war. But the one thing I thought he’d react to, he didn’t.”

“Egorov?”

“Right. If he had a hand in killing Egorov, I think he would’ve warned me off in no uncertain terms. But he hardly reacted. I’m betting that if Egorov was his main contact, he’s
already settled the score with whoever killed him. Or maybe he had nothing at all to do with it.”

“It would be helpful to find out which,” Harding said.

“There is a way, I think. Obviously, I didn’t tell them I was an investigator. I hinted at a possible source of supplies. Black market stuff. Basically they told me to come back with something concrete or not to come back at all.”

“So you want what?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, trying to act like this was all Harding’s idea. “A truckload of something. Nothing dangerous or too valuable. Booze, maybe?”

“A truckload of liquor is damned valuable, Boyle!”

“Yes, sir, but the thing is, we’ll get paid for it.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do, give the army a stack of pound notes as reimbursement?”

“OK, OK, liquor’s a bad idea. But it wouldn’t hurt to have some ready cash around the office for contingencies, would it?”

“What do you expect to get out of this transaction with Chapman?” Harding said, ignoring my attempt at entrepreneurship.

“The closer I get to him, the easier it’ll be for me to find out if he had anything to do with Egorov’s murder, or if he has any knowledge of it at all. He’s not your average good citizen. If he witnessed a murder, the last thing he’d do would be to go to the police.”

“So you want to get into the black market and return any money you make to the army?”

“Since I’ll be stealing the army’s supplies, it’s only fair.”

“I think it’s worth a try. You won’t be surprised to hear that Big Mike has made friends with the cooks in the mess hall downstairs. That’s where he is now. You may need to spread some of that dough around, but try not to corrupt the entire kitchen staff.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” I said as I rose from my chair. “I assume I can refer to your verbal orders in case we run into trouble?”

“Hell no, Boyle. You get caught, you end up in the stockade. Who ever heard of a guy black marketeering who was following orders? Beat it.”

I did. I found Big Mike in the mess hall, spooning sugar into a mug of coffee with three doughnuts at hand. I grabbed a mug and joined him.

“How you doing, Billy?” Big Mike said, with his usual lack of military formality. Even though he wore khaki instead of blue, he was still a cop at heart. He carried his shield with him everywhere, badge number 473, Detroit Police Department. You never knew when a flash of tin to a brother officer in a foreign land would come in handy, and with what I had in mind, we might need it.

“OK,” I said. “I sort of have Harding’s permission to pull off a heist, as long as we don’t get caught. I need some army supplies to get in good with a local hood. Interested in a little petty larceny?”

“Could be, if you get Estelle back for me,” he said, as half a doughnut disappeared.

“Come on, Big Mike, I don’t have enough clout to make that happen.”

“That’s what Colonel Harding said, which is why I ain’t speaking to him, except what’s needed to conduct business. But you, you got an uncle in high places. You could make it happen.”

“Big Mike, listen—”

“No, Billy, you listen. You get Estelle back from North Africa. Get her assigned here, in London. Otherwise, I ain’t helping you, and I might even have to arrest you for whatever you’re cooking up.”

“You can’t arrest anybody, Big Mike. You’re not a cop or an MP.”

“No, but there’s MPs all around this joint. I want Estelle back.”

“You really fell for her, huh?”

“Billy, I ain’t never met a girl like her. Lookit me, I’m no Errol
Flynn, I’m a big guy, kinda clumsy at times. Most girls make a joke, like I’m a sideshow strongman. But Estelle, she looked me in the eyes and that was that. We both knew, it’s that simple. I can’t bear to think of her alone in Tangier, wondering if I even cared enough to try and find her. You know what I mean?”

“Sure I do, Big Mike.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, Billy, I didn’t mean anything about Diana. That’s different, she wants to go. You ain’t leaving her all alone.”

“OK, Big Mike. I’m in. How about I get to work on it after we—”

“No. Now. Go see Beetle and get Estelle back here. I’ll wait.”

“Jesus, Big Mike! Beetle will keep me waiting for hours and then have my ass for asking! It’ll never work.”

“No, he won’t, and yes, it will.”

“How can you say that? Can you read his mind? If you claim to know Uncle Ike’s chief of staff so well that you can guarantee it, why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“I sort of did. I told him this morning that you would be stopping by to ask his assistance in getting a material witness brought back to London.”

“What the hell were you doing talking to Beetle? The king would need an appointment to see him.”

“I asked around and found out he used to hunt quail in Virginia. He has that cocker spaniel with him, you know, the one he got in North Africa. So I talked to a British captain who just came on board. He’s the earl of something or other, and has a country place over near Cheltenham. I suggested to him that Beetle wouldn’t mind an invite to kill birds with him. He liked the idea, so I went to see Beetle, and told him all about it. He said he felt like shooting something, and invited me to come along. Probably just to carry the shotguns, but still it was a nice gesture.”

“Where did Estelle come in?”

“He asked how the investigation was going. Ike will be here in a few days, and he wanted to know if we’d have anything to
report. I told him about Estelle getting transferred, and how it would be helpful to get her back here.”

“I assume you didn’t tell him she was the love of your life?”

“Hell no, Billy. I didn’t make it out to be any big deal. Didn’t want to overplay my hand. Beetle just said if you was having any trouble to let him know. So go let him know while he’s in a good mood and thinking about blasting quail. Then we’ll steal whatever you want.”

I left Big Mike to wash down the third doughnut while I went upstairs. Luck was on my side; Mattie Pinette was the WAC on duty. She was a good friend from North Africa, and she’d heard about the quail hunt Big Mike had organized.

“We’re all grateful, Billy,” she said in a whisper. “Beetle needs a day off. Don’t you worry. Estelle Gordon will be back in London as soon as we can get her on an aircraft. Is she a suspect in something? Is she dangerous?”

“She’s a giant killer, Mattie.”

Ten minutes later Big Mike—wearing a grin that wouldn’t stop—and I were scouting out the back entrance to Norfolk House, along Charles Street, where the deliveries came in. It was a tight squeeze, and several vehicles were waiting in line, a plumber’s truck and a jeep filled with typewriters jockeying for position near the double-wide rear doors.

“We can’t touch the civilian stuff, and I doubt there’s a market for typewriters,” Big Mike said. “Want to stake the place out?”

“How about heading back to the kitchen, and we’ll ask the cooks what they’ve got. We can tell them Beetle was asking for something special.”

“Canned peaches,” Big Mike said. “They’re worth their weight in gold.”

“Perfect,” I said. We both went, and I played the snotty junior officer, ordering Big Mike around in front of the mess staff. We told the sergeant in charge that General Walter Bedell Smith was a sonuvabitch all day if he didn’t get his canned peaches and
that if there weren’t any this afternoon he was going to get himself some new cooks.

These cooks and bakers worked hard, no doubt about it, but they also knew that duty at Norfolk House in London was preferable to cooking in some battalion kitchen out on maneuvers. They consulted clipboards, yelled into the telephone, searched shelves, and looked under counters, stirring up a cloud of flour in their haste and panic, until a kid wearing an apron bigger than he was triumphantly told us they’d be serving canned peaches in a couple of hours, and had enough coming in to keep Beetle in thick syrup for weeks. They were happy, I was happy, Big Mike was happy. But there would be no peaches tonight for the weary warriors of Norfolk House.

We waited on Charles Street, watching the traffic, wrapped in our trench coats and scarves, stomping our feet to keep warm. The weather was turning colder, the clouds still blanking out the sun, the pavement chill creeping up our boots. Finally, what we were waiting for showed up. One supply truck, driven by a corporal, with a PFC dead asleep in the passenger’s seat. I stepped out in front of them as they turned off the street.

“Show me your orders!” I barked, imitating a combination of Beetle, Harding, and a rabid dog as I peered inside the truck cab. “How dare you show up to headquarters like this? You’re both out of uniform. I ought to put you on report.”

“Gee, Lieutenant,” the PFC said, “we’ve been loading and unloading crates all day. We always wear our fatigues on work detail. These are uniforms, ain’t they?”

“Looks like you’ve been rolling around in the dirt all day, soldier. Plus, no field scarf, and that wool cap isn’t regulation wear without a steel helmet on top of it. If General Smith sees you, you’ll lose what stripes you have. Pull the vehicle over then go inside, both of you. Wash up, make yourselves presentable, and then unload this stuff.”

“But, Lieutenant, we can’t leave this—”

“I’ll sign for your shipment, Corporal, don’t worry. And we’ll wait right here. Now move!”

“I don’t know, Lieutenant,” he said, handing me the clipboard. I scrawled on the signature line and kept the clipboard.

“Trust me, I know. I used to be a captain. Then I showed up one day with mud on my trousers. Busted. Do yourself a favor—hustle inside, clean up, get back here on the double, and you might be all right. I can’t wait all day.”

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant,” he said, getting out of the truck and reaching for the clipboard. “I’ll take my receipt now.”

“You’re not putting those greasy fingers on my copy,” I said, tossing the clipboard on the seat. “Clean those hands and then we’ll finish the paperwork.”

They both went off, shaking their heads, slightly unsure if they owed me thanks or if it was more of the usual chickenshit. Big Mike and I watched them go in, waited a couple of seconds in case they looked back, and jumped into the truck. I threw the clipboard out the window. They’d find it, signed, and maybe their story would be believed. I shoved the gear into reverse, backed into Charles Street, and took off, trying not to hit the statue of Florence Nightingale as I turned right onto Waterloo Place, watching the rearview mirror for cooks, bakers, MPs, or quartermaster troops on our tail.

“You got a can opener on you, Billy?” Big Mike asked. I didn’t stop laughing until I realized I had to find a place in the heart of London to hide a three-quarter-ton U.S. Army truck, loaded with crates labeled
PEACHES, CANNED, SYRUP, HEAVY
.

Fortunately, Walter was on duty at the Dorchester, manning the front desk and unflappable as I told him we needed a place to park a truck for a few hours, out of sight. I hesitated to use the word
hide
, but he understood. He made a phone call and told me to head around the back of the hotel, between the two wings that extended from the rear of the hotel. I signaled Big Mike, who was circling the block, and he turned in, a Dorchester Rolls-Royce pulling in behind us, partially blocking the view
from the side street. As long as the MPs didn’t start searching fancy hotels for stolen peaches, we’d be OK. I untied the canvas cover at the rear and counted crates. Neatly stacked, there were four rows, four high, four deep. Sixty-four crates of canned peaches. I grabbed a pry bar from a tool kit bolted to the floor and popped the top of one crate, the thin pine giving way easily. Six industrial-sized cans in each crate, enough peaches to feed an army.